AMANDA BROWNING - Enemy Within

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

MICKEY HANLON experienced a dismayingly familiar tightening of her stomach muscles as, through the window of what they laughingly called her office, she watched a tall male figure climbing out of a now stationary jeep. Only moments before, the vehicle had raced down the fortunately deserted track which led to the bay on which her charter business was situated, leaving a slowly settling cloud of dust in its wake. With blatant disregard for the signs, he had parked in a no parking area, and Mickey knew instinctively that this was the way he went through life, obeying only the rules he wanted to, and making up the rest.

She also knew, with a faint sinking feeling, that he just had to be Ryan Douglas, the man who had chartered her float plane, and her skills, for the next few days, and for whom she had been waiting with increasing annoyance these past two hours. Justifiable annoyance, because on the telephone Ryan Douglas’s secretary had been most insistent she be there to meet him. Not that that had been hard to arrange, for, with the end of summer, the chartered sight-seeing trips were virtually over, although there would always be the out-of-season trade. But it had meant turning over one of her flights to another of her pilots, who should have had the day off.

She doubted she would have done it for anyone else, but there was a great deal of clout to be gained from piloting a world-famous photographer on one of his now legendary field trips. She’d caught an exhibition once while on a trip south to Vancouver, but all she knew of him came from overhearing the drooling conversation of two women who had also been visiting the show. He was, she had discovered, in his mid-thirties and unmarried, but that hadn’t impressed her half as much as his work. There was poetry in the photographs, a vision of a world the way it could be, even in the midst of turmoil and carnage.

To be even peripherally involved in the production of such art had helped her decide it would be good business to be adaptable. Besides, there was no point in wearing blinkers. The company desperately needed the kudos the assignment would bring. The recession was hitting her, too, creating a definite cash-flow problem. Keeping a fleet of float planes in tiptop condition took a great deal of money, and had priority, so other areas suffered. The buildings needed urgent attention, which meant they needed paying customers, but paying customers didn’t use a company which had all the signs of rampant seediness. Ryan Douglas was a way out of her difficulties, and so she had made a point of being on the ground at the specified time, only to find herself kicking her heels uselessly.

Now the root cause of her irritability was walking towards the converted boat shed as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A leather flying jacket sat comfortably on broad shoulders, while a pair of long legs, encased in thigh-hugging jeans, ate up the ground in loping strides. The ease with which he carried a canvas grip hinted at latent power, a power not solely allied to mere physical strength. Here was a man who was in complete control of himself and his life, and for no accountable reason Mickey shivered, the tiny hairs standing up all over her body.

He made her feel threatened, in a way she had thought long buried, consigned to the very recesses of her brain with all other memories of Jean-Luc. She shuddered at the name, lips thinning, and thrust the memory away, concentrating on the present walking towards her. She wished she could see his face, but that was hidden in the shadow cast by the peak of his slouch hat. Faces told you a great deal about a person—whether they laughed a lot, and if they were to be trusted. She’d learnt that much from past mistakes, and wasn’t about to forget it. Unfortunately there was no chance to see this one, for three strides later he had disappeared into the building, leaving her with a feeling of edginess that bordered on tension.

At which point she got a firm grip on herself. She had no time to be so femininely fanciful. Jean-Luc was in the past. She was no longer prey to the kind of emotions he had aroused in her. If she was tense, she had every reason to be. The company which had become her life was under threat, and, added to that, she hadn’t heard from her sister Leah for some time. She was being silly to worry. Leah was probably caught up in university life. Everyone knew the young were notoriously forgetful. She’d write, very contritely, when she remembered.

Mickey squared her shoulders. She was a businesswoman, and was here to do a job. Running a small fleet of planes out of British Columbia had not been easy in a male-dominated field, but an unsuspected gritty determination had kept her going. She had forged a niche in life where she was liked and respected, a zillion miles away from the life she had left eight years ago, when she had been a deeply unhappy twenty-year-old. No man was going to undermine her achievements, no matter who he thought he was.

‘Hey, Mac? Is Hanlon inside?’ The abrupt tones of a deep male voice, coming from only yards away, broke into her reverie, making her jump and bringing an irritated scowl to her face at her reaction.

‘Mickey? Yep, sure.’ The slightly bemused tone of Sid Meeks, her mechanic and right-hand-man, echoed across the former boat shed which served as a hangar.

Footsteps approached the office, and she turned away from the window, crossing to her desk, unconsciously bracing herself for the meeting. The door was thrust open without a preliminary knock, and an electric force seemed to explode into the room along with the man. Mickey had never experienced anything remotely like it, and perhaps that was why her words came out far more sharply than she had intended.

‘You’re late, Mr Douglas!’ she snapped, taking an instant dislike to this male who seemed to think he could arrogantly do anything he liked. She had met the sort before. Jean-Luc had been a prime example, and her experiences with him had opened her eyes with a vengeance. Such men were anathema to her, and if she had known beforehand what this man was like she would never have agreed to spend an hour with him, let alone a few days!

At the sound of her voice the focus of her attention stopped abruptly; then, to her surprise and chagrin, he laughed, a deep-throated sound which almost curled her toes even as she tensed angrily. As her cheeks turned pink he propped his shoulder against the doorpost, tipped his hat on to the back of his head, and gave out with a long, soundless whistle.

She could see all she wanted of his face then. He had impossibly long-lashed blue eyes beneath mockingly raised brows, an aquiline nose and a mouth with a sensuality that should have carried a health warning! He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she had seen enough in her short life to know the difference between this and plain good looks. This man had it all, down to the dimple in his chin. The ruggedness of his jaw stopped him from looking effeminate, which was fortunate, for beneath his hat she could see a cluster of dark curls.

All this she absorbed in seconds, plus two undeniable facts. First he seemed vaguely familiar, and secondly he found her amusing. She hadn’t been prepared for the latter, nor the way his eyes began a slow inspection of her person. They didn’t miss much on the way down, and any lapse was accounted for on the way up. He noted the well worn boots on her feet, the shapeless khaki cords cinched in at her waist with a wide leather belt. His eyes lingered on the red plaid shirt, then followed the crimson tide up over an elfin face entirely devoid of make-up, large green eyes flashing angrily, full lips pulled into a tight line, until finally they skipped over the close-cropped black hair crammed beneath a dusty bush hat.